I can't think of any. For a writer I must not be very funny. 
Anyone have any writer's jokes?
I'll start.
A writer dies and meets St. Peter. He tells her that she can choose between going to heaven or hell. Being a smart person, the writer asks to see hell first. She looks in, and there are all these writers, row after row of writers, chained to their desks, hunched over their keypads, brows furrowed. "This is terrible," she says to St. Peter. "Show me heaven." So she looks into heaven, and there are all these writers, row after row of writers, chained to their desks, hunched over their keypads, brows furrowed. "But this is awful, too," she says. "What's the difference?"
"Well," St. Peter tells her, "the ones in heaven are published."
A writer dies and meets St. Peter. He tells her that she can choose between going to heaven or hell. Being a smart person, the writer asks to see hell first. She looks in, and there are all these writers, row after row of writers, chained to their desks, hunched over their keypads, brows furrowed. "This is terrible," she says to St. Peter. "Show me heaven." So she looks into heaven, and there are all these writers, row after row of writers, chained to their desks, hunched over their keypads, brows furrowed. "But this is awful, too," she says. "What's the difference?"
"Well," St. Peter tells her, "the ones in heaven are published."
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MaryKingsley said:I'll start.
A writer dies and meets St. Peter. He tells her that she can choose between going to heaven or hell. Being a smart person, the writer asks to see hell first. She looks in, and there are all these writers, row after row of writers, chained to their desks, hunched over their keypads, brows furrowed. "This is terrible," she says to St. Peter. "Show me heaven." So she looks into heaven, and there are all these writers, row after row of writers, chained to their desks, hunched over their keypads, brows furrowed. "But this is awful, too," she says. "What's the difference?"
"Well," St. Peter tells her, "the ones in heaven are published."
. Nice!!!
There was once a young man who, in his youth, professed his desire to become a great writer.
When asked to define great, he said, "I want to write stuff that the whole world will read, stuff that people will react to on a truly emotional level, stuff that will make them scream, cry, howl in pain and anger!"
He now works for Microsoft writing error messages.
When asked to define great, he said, "I want to write stuff that the whole world will read, stuff that people will react to on a truly emotional level, stuff that will make them scream, cry, howl in pain and anger!"
He now works for Microsoft writing error messages.
A screenwriter comes home to a burned down house. His sobbing and slightly-singed wife is standing outside. “What happened, honey?” the man asks.
“Oh, John, it was terrible,” she weeps. “I was cooking, the phone rang. It was your agent. Because I was on the phone, I didn’t notice the stove was on fire. It went up in second. Everything is gone. I nearly didn’t make it out of the house. Poor Fluffy is...”
“Wait, wait. Back up a minute,” The man says. “My agent called?”
*********************************************************
Q. What's the difference between publishers and terrorists?
A. You can negotiate with terrorists.
“Oh, John, it was terrible,” she weeps. “I was cooking, the phone rang. It was your agent. Because I was on the phone, I didn’t notice the stove was on fire. It went up in second. Everything is gone. I nearly didn’t make it out of the house. Poor Fluffy is...”
“Wait, wait. Back up a minute,” The man says. “My agent called?”
*********************************************************
Q. What's the difference between publishers and terrorists?
A. You can negotiate with terrorists.
It's a joke my uncle told me when he discovered I wanted to be a writer.
My Uncle:
"There was a critically acclaimed writer that everyone thought was washed up. He spent years and years writing his fifth novel and everyone was curious about it. He'd go sit in his study alone with his computer and write for hours upon hours. Finally, his wife, asked them one night as they lay in bed, 'honey, what is your book about.' The man huffed and said, 'None of your d*mn business.' So she never asked again. He continued to spend day after day working on the novel until five years passed. His wife died. The man mourned his wife's death for a short time and went back to writing his novel. After a year, the man became lonely, met someone else and was soon married again. His second wife saw him working on his novel day after day, hours and hours. Lying in bed one night, she finally asked, 'honey what is your book about.' The man huffed and said 'None of your d*mn business.' So she never asked again. He continued to spend day after day working on his novel alone. Then, one day, his wife walked into his study and found him slumped over his desk. She called 911 and the paramedics informed her that her husband was dead. After his body was taken away. The wife thought, 'I wonder what his book was about.' She went into his study and the computer was still on. She looked at the screen and read page after page of what he had written."
After saying all this, my uncle paused for a very long time.
Me:
So what was the book about? I asked.
My uncle turned to me with a serious look on his face and said....
My Uncle:
None of your d*mn business.
My Uncle:
"There was a critically acclaimed writer that everyone thought was washed up. He spent years and years writing his fifth novel and everyone was curious about it. He'd go sit in his study alone with his computer and write for hours upon hours. Finally, his wife, asked them one night as they lay in bed, 'honey, what is your book about.' The man huffed and said, 'None of your d*mn business.' So she never asked again. He continued to spend day after day working on the novel until five years passed. His wife died. The man mourned his wife's death for a short time and went back to writing his novel. After a year, the man became lonely, met someone else and was soon married again. His second wife saw him working on his novel day after day, hours and hours. Lying in bed one night, she finally asked, 'honey what is your book about.' The man huffed and said 'None of your d*mn business.' So she never asked again. He continued to spend day after day working on his novel alone. Then, one day, his wife walked into his study and found him slumped over his desk. She called 911 and the paramedics informed her that her husband was dead. After his body was taken away. The wife thought, 'I wonder what his book was about.' She went into his study and the computer was still on. She looked at the screen and read page after page of what he had written."
After saying all this, my uncle paused for a very long time.
Me:
So what was the book about? I asked.
My uncle turned to me with a serious look on his face and said....
My Uncle:
None of your d*mn business.
Heard about the dumb--I mean the brain-otherly-abled-- Hollywood starlet?
She slept with the writer.
She slept with the writer.
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